Running and Waiting
by fairytalemanipulator
Summary: Oneshot. What if Sam isn't the only one that has dreams that keep him up at night?


**Title: Running and Waiting**

**Author: fairytalemanipulator**

**Disclaimer: Nothing, really. Rated K+ for good measure- if you don't like Dean angst, don't read! The characters don't belong to me, they belong to the writing team at the WB.**

**Here I am again- on a writing binge, as you can tell. PLLEAASE review, I love reviews, they make my world go round. If you can't tell, I love writing about angsty, turmoiled Dean. It's a curious fascination, I know. If any of you have read Waiting For Godot by Samuel Beckett, I kind of took the idea of waiting for something from that. On with the show!**

**Summary: Oneshot. Sam's not the only one with dreams…**

Sometimes, he is running in his dreams. Sometimes, he's standing still. He is usually looking for something—or maybe it's som_eone_. He feels his eyes strain involuntarily as he scans the blank horizon, finding nothing but dead trees and windblown leaves littering the bare, dusty ground.

In one dream, he is running past houses at lightning speed, as the houses flash by him on either side of the empty road. White, empty houses that look as though they should have a family inside them, but they don't. He calls a name, he doesn't know whose it is, and no one answers; just as he had expected. Suddenly, the houses end at he is at the center of a desert. He sees something on the ground, something flash before his eyes, and he slows his pace, bending to retrieve the shining object. It is a necklace, with an amulet attached. It's _his _necklace. And suddenly, he knows what he is looking for and he finds his corpse, lying spread-eagle a few steps away behind a bush. His eyes are wide open on the dusty desert floor, and he stops dead in his tracks with a morbid curiosity at his own body on the ground in front of him. His eyes take in the spiked blondish-brown hair, the leather jacket, and the tiny trickle of blood coming out the corner of the mouth; and then he looks at the necklace in his hands. And when he looks up again, the body is no longer his. He stares upon the body of a twenty-two year old, lanky but strong looking, with tendrils of short curls around his face. The body is contorted in a way that makes itself known as death. Dean cries out, but the sound won't be made in his dreams. He opens his mouth—what could he say? He feels himself start to run again, run away from the sight, but something in him tries to pull him back. And then he wakes up, soaking in a cold sweat, and makes sure that Sammy is still sleeping- _still breathing_- in the bed next to him. On many an occasion, he has headed to the bathroom to be sick, thereby purging himself of the evil his mind has made him see in his sleep.

In another dream, he is waiting for something by an old oak tree. The tree is gnarled and knobby, multiple branches twisting off to form more branches of their own. He waits for what seems like a long time, but he doesn't know how long because there is no sense of time in this world. Nothing comes around, and the wind whispers condolences in his ear as he waits some more. He knew that he would always be alone, and that his waiting was hopeless, but he did it anyway. He knew he would never have company; he would be miserable by himself, next to the old tree. Wordless questions form, but none are fully created in his head. They float around, partial sentences hitting him hard; _Mom, Jess, why? Dad, what? Sammy, wait, please?_

He is looking for answers, but doesn't know the right questions to ask. He can't help himself, and in the morning all he feels is tired. He can't remember. That's why he hates dreaming; he can't control the demons that overtake his mind at night like he can control everything else. And if Sammy questions him, asks what's wrong, Dean brushes him off. He has no idea, and Dean hopes he never will. Dean blows off his brother's concern with a snide comment and his trademark smirk thinking, _Sammy has enough problems of his own._

While Sam dreamed in color, Dean dreamed in black and white. While Sam could see the gray area, Dean couldn't. Sam always had Dean to pull him out of his nightmares; Dean was forced to relive his night after night. Nights of waiting, nights of running exhausted him, because no matter how far he ran, he couldn't run away from it.

_From what?_

And no matter how long he waited, no one came around to answer his questions.

_What am I waiting for? What am I looking for?_

Dean is alone. He used to think he had all the answers. Now he knows that he never can, and never will.

The thing that frightens him the most is the fact that one day he won't wake up from these dreams. He will be forever stuck in his endless cycle of running and waiting, running and waiting. He dwells on this as he navigates his Impala down a rural interstate, his brother in the passenger seat silently reading a road map. Dean thinks subconciously,

_Only, when it's my time to go, there'll be no waking in between. It'll all be one big reality, and I won't be able to run away from it any more._

**Please send me a review on the way out! Thanks!**


End file.
